The cover story on the magazine is titled The Radio Revolution. The coffee table is a block of concrete artfully designed. The apartment, spacious, open plan, a quad of dishes left unwashed on the kitchen island spoiling the inward view, is on the eighteenth floor. The radio is on, a talking station. The reception is absolutely clear, for the studio from where the broadcast emanates is seven floors above.

Rudolf is lounging by the concrete table, which is low and wide, his legs outstretched. His unsymmetrical, forgettable face is darkened by a three-day growth of beard. His hair is curlier long and has not been cut for a while. In his ears he wears a pair of earplugs.

There is a knock at the door.

Rudolf, on his way to answer, takes the earplugs out and stuffs them in his pocket. At the door there stands a woman in her thirties.

‘Great. You came. Come in,’ invited Rudolf.

The woman smiled and entered Rudolf’s apartment.

‘What’s on?’ she asked with a point towards the ether.

‘Oh. Don’t know. It’s current affairs, I think.’

Rudolf looked towards a kitchen clock. ‘Yeah. Current affairs,’ he said. ‘Just try and ignore it.’

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James London

James London

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They don't want me to write. Banned from publishing at @JSLondon_